The Quell
by S.M. Eveliar
Summary: "On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district will be made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who will represent it."


Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games. I just play them.

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><p>Chapter 1: The Reading of the Card<p>

It's five AM and I slump in the rocking chair in the room that I live in, in cramped Tenement 12, having finally finished stitching the last of the Capitol seals on the Peacekeeper uniforms I had brought home with me. Each one had to be perfect, from the blockish eagle in the heart of it and the thirteen arrows clutched in its talons to the two olive branches encircling them, or else not only would I not be paid the little extra money that the factory offers for this, but I would also get ten lashes for each ruined uniform. I could embroider this emblem with my eyes closed, I had done so many in the 4 years since the factory fire had killed my parents.

I look over at my daughter, Bianca, or Biya, as I call her. She is a perfect angel, sleeping in my bed with the worn blankets wrapped tightly around her, her auburn hair fanned out on the pillow like a halo. It is March, and the days are cold and the nights colder here in District 8. I crawl into bed beside my daughter and she snuggles closer to me, drawn to my body heat. There are a few hours of sleep that I can squeeze out of the night before I must wake up and go to the factory for another day of working my fingers to the bone with my fellow tailors from the Fray.

It seems like minutes before the wake-up alarm sounds throughout the District. 8 o'clock. I have an hour to get dressed, make breakfast, and drop Biya off at Rebecca's house, and walk to the factory. I am still wearing my uniform, not having bothered to change when I returned from the factory yesterday. I try to smooth out a few wrinkles that I hope will go by unnoticed and wake Biya up, dressing her in a plain blue frock while she teeters on the spot, half asleep. She sits at the small wooden table and I place a bowl of hot grain in front of her, which she eats quickly. I pour the rest of my bowl into hers.

"Thank you Mama, but don't you need to eat too?" She asks innocently.

"Don't worry baby, I ate some earlier. You have the rest." My stomach growls in protest, but I ignore it. Afterwards, we hurry to the daycare located at the edge of the Fray, close to the shops.

"Jessa," Rebecca says warmly when we arrive, walking over to me and hugging me. She is my only friend, the only one who passes no judgment on my past actions, what I still sometimes have to do to make ends meet. "And little Biya!" She exclaims. "Are you ready for arts and crafts today?" Biya squeals in delight. Rebecca runs a daycare for the workers from the Fray. You wouldn't know from looking at her, Rebecca, the kind, motherly woman who, although only eleven years older than me, treats me like a daughter, but she's a killer. She was the victor of the 12th annual Hunger Games, reaped when she was fifteen. With her money she runs this daycare, and although she is mandated by the Capitol to charge those of us whose children she takes care of, she charges as little as she can. She knows that a factory worker's wage is hardly enough for the rent of even the most run down tenements, leaving little money to spare for food or clothes.

I kneel down and hug and kiss Biya goodbye. "Bye-bye Mama! Have fun at work!" She kisses me on the cheek and runs to meet the other kids. I hand the coins to Rebecca to pay for the day. She gives my shoulder a squeeze and I give her a grateful nod and take off.

When I get to the factory, I barely clock in and reach my station when the clock strikes nine. The inspector comes in and examines our uniforms, our faces, our hands, to make sure that we are in proper attire and grooming. I nervously smooth down my skirt again, and when Inspector Jorkins reaches me, she looks down at my skirt, nostrils flared, and orders me one lash for my 'unkempt' appearance. In District 8, everyone over the age of 15 in the Fray (18 for the merchants) has a card, on which a tally of how many whippings you've earned is recorded. You can choose when to take your whippings, although if you wait too long there is a penalty, to be carried out immediately. Most people take them frequently so that they don't lose a day's work from having had too many all at once. My card now has 10, the limit I set for myself. Later today, after the mandatory viewing from the Capitol, I will go to the whipping post and redeem my points.

At six I finish my shift (no overtime shift tonight because of the viewing), take a stack of Peacekeeping uniforms to work on tonight, and make my way back to Rebecca's to pick up Biya. When we get home, I get myself and Biya ready. For myself, I merely brush the tangles out of my shoulder length dark brown hair and put on a clean dress. I spend more time on Biya, whose long auburn curls I braid into two pigtails, tie a green ribbon on each, and take out some of the few remaining baby clothes I had rescued from my parents house sentimentally, never suspecting I would need them this soon in the future. The dress I choose is dark green with white lace.

When we arrive in the square, it is already full. It is not the Reaping, and so I do not have to go stand with the other seventeen year old girls from the district, thankfully, although the alternative is no picnic either. I'm in the section where the young children and their parents sit, so that their cries do not disturb the proceedings. I receive the look that I have ever since I was orphaned at fourteen, the scornful glares and whispers of the other women in the district, the worst of which coming from the mercantile women, the wives of the shop owners in town.

It is no surprise, since it is mainly their husbands that call me, not the poor yet faithful husbands from the Fray. Because like I said, a factory worker's wage is barely enough to pay rent. And I have two mouths to feed, one a growing two year old girl. It's not something I'm proud of, but it's something I'm willing to do to keep my daughter off the streets and fed.

My name is Jessa Crayton, but I know many of the women call me "Jezebel" behind my back. Or sometimes to my face. I started sleeping with men for money when I was 13, when my parents died in the factory explosion. I had no relatives to take me in, and since I couldn't work in the factory myself until I turned 15, I had to find another way to survive. The men who call on me are mostly the wealthy shop owners who can afford it. Their wives knew of me, and I knew of their wives, and although it appalled me, it didn't deter me. I was not in a place where I could refuse money. Especially when I found out I was pregnant. I was fourteen and stupid. Contraceptive medicine was far too expensive, and men said they would not pay to have their pleasure numbed by rubber. And so all of these women wonder, which of their husbands fathered the whore's daughter.

The screen flickers on and everyone falls silent. The Capitol anthem plays to a waving flag. The president of Panem takes the stage on screen as the anthem ends. President Snow stands with his son, who looks my age, off to the side, taking notes with ferocious attention. He gestures for someone to come to him, and a young boy dressed in a white suit comes holding a simple wooden box.

"Good evening to all of the citizens of Panem!" He announces. "We are approaching our 25th annual Hunger Games this year, and some of you may already know what this means." I look around me and see only confused faces. The president speaks of the Dark Days of the rebellion that spawned the Hunger Games, the annual event in which 24 boys and girls from ages twelve to eighteen, one of each from each of the twelve districts, are selected to fight to the death in an arena. "Every twenty-five years, the anniversary of the rebels' defeat was to be marked by a Quarter Quell, to remember those killed in the rebellion. This year we honor our first Quarter Quell." The boy in white steps forward, holding the box out and opening the lid. Rows of yellowed envelopes line the inside. The president picks out the first one, marked with a 25, and opens it slowly. He reads, "On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district will be made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who will represent it."

My heart stops. Because I know of only one girl in District 8 who is so widely disliked and disapproved of that the district would vote for to die. And it's me.

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